


The French-English Mutual Aid Society

by GrrraceUnderfire



Category: Hogan's Heroes (TV 1965)
Genre: Gen, Injury, Male Friendship, Prisoner of War, Stuttering, Stuttering Peter Newkirk, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:34:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21847405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrrraceUnderfire/pseuds/GrrraceUnderfire
Summary: Newkirk is worried about LeBeau’s latest fall from the roof. Another perspective on “The Gypsy.”
Relationships: Peter Newkirk & Louis LeBeau
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	The French-English Mutual Aid Society

That drip, drip, drip would drive anyone mad. It had been leaking right above my bed for weeks, but I’d slept in worse. LeBeau, though... now it was over his bed. He was used to better and he was exasperated.

Mind you, he’s always been a bit mad, our Louis. I’ve known him the longest, so I remember when he was a wire-happy kriegie like me, doing anything to try to escape. Spent a lot of time together in the cooler, we did. The bad boys of Stalag 13.

Hogan’s arrival changed all that. Gave us a purpose. And not insignificantly, it gave us a way in and out of camp. We were still stuck inside the wires most of the time, but now we knew it was our choice. And that helped, knowing that we could walk freely once in a while. Well, as freely as one can walk in Nazi Germany.

That didn’t mean we didn’t feel helpless sometimes. Little things wore us down, like the fact that Colonel Hogan had tried, but he couldn’t get old Klink to fix the roof. 

I’d given up hope when Louis complained about it yet again. “Give an ultimatum to management,” I said. “Tell them you’re checking out.” I bet he’d stayed in hotels and I could perfectly well imagine him carrying on like that. Yes, a cold wet bed made him miserable. Me, I was used to them, having grown up in a proper rubbish tip where leaks and rats and filth were ordinary. I was probably the only man in camp who considered Stalag 13 an improvement on my home life. The meals were regular, for starters, and I had my own bed. RAF training had been a holiday. I never got hit without knowing exactly why and I generally agreed with the decision.

So I didn’t give it much thought when he declared he was going to fix the roof himself, though I didn’t half wonder where he got the raincoat. I should have followed him, I know I should have, but we were busy trying to figure out that half-track, and I knew Colonel Hogan would have had my head for stew meat if I’d stood up and walked off. 

I could hear him clomping about up there, knocking at things with his little hammer, getting the job done, because that ‘s what Louis does. He might only come up to my shoulder, but he’s a giant to me. I lean on him more than he leans on me, I can tell you.

Then suddenly the sky lit and thunder cracked—fast. That meant it was close. Andrew taught me that, how you could tell the distance by counting “one and a two and a three.” That lightning bolt was right on top of us.

I heard the slipping before I heard the thud, which is why I was the first one to the door. I practically pushed Baker out of the way. Louis is my best mate, no one else’s. He’d been lucky once before with a tumble from the roof. This time I feared the worst.

Plucky little chap, though. We hauled him back inside and checked him over. Nothing broken. I could see he was shaken by the way he clutched onto me when I carried him inside, but I don’t think the Colonel noticed. He was off and running with one of his mad schemes before we could even get cold compress on Louis.

I sat with him all that night. Well, someone had to. Concussions and contusions, Wilson called them—we’d all had a lot of them, and no doubt Louis would be sore in the morning. We didn’t have much for it. A few aspirin, an ointment with something called arnica, which Louis swore by. Or swore at, in this case, when I rubbed it into his legs. He was aching.

I wanted to go out and steal some ice from the kitchen store rooms, but the Colonel said no. So we made do with sticking a bucket outside to collect cold rainwater, and we soaked some rags in that to use as compresses.

He swore all night in French. I won’t go into details here except to say the word “putain” was mentioned several times. It sounds like a perfectly lovely word to my English ears, but Louis assures me that is the most versatile and disgusting curse you can utter, at least in French. I’m proud to say I can now swear fluently in English, German, Russian and French, and Garlotti’s helping me work on my Italian, so don’t say you can’t learn anything useful from war.

Louis looked a bit pained and stiff at rollcall the next morning, but he did his part, just as the Colonel ordered. When he and the Gov trotted over to Klink’s office, I could see him limping a bit and I knew he had to be in pain. Well there was nothing for it. He was in one piece and that was what mattered.

I had to laugh at that earring, though. Where did we find that, anyway? 

I do wish the colonel would give him time to recover from a bad fall like that, but that’s Hogan for you. Sometimes he gets so carried away with his ideas that he forgets to notice that we’re not indestructible. And to be fair, the weight of every mission’s success or failure is on him. No one else has that worry.

When he got back to the barracks, I’d sure make to get Louis to rest a bit. And if he insists on getting up, I’d sit beside him at the table, a hand on his back. I was glad he wasn’t hurt worse, and I’d take care of my little mate.


End file.
